


stretching the distance from me to you

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Casual mentions of alcohol, Clubbing, Italian Food, M/M, Modest Management (One Direction), also the ziam is minimal but i promise it's there, the louis/ofc is super super brief and unrequited if it makes you feel better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Harry and Louis have been dating secretly for about 1 year now. But they have gotten too big, management is angry and fans are confused. With the risk of losing their record deal Louis decides to agree with what management suggests and starts ignoring Harry. This greatly hurts Harry and takes him almost to a point of no return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stretching the distance from me to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thingssicant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thingssicant/gifts).



> I had a lot of fun with this! I hope you like it :)

The meeting goes about as well as they expected it to. Which means, of course, that it goes terribly.

The executives are sitting across from them in pressed suits. One is a rather skinny lad with large glasses and a generally nervous disposition. He fiddles with his hands regularly and keeps checking the clunky watch on his wrist. With his pallid complexion and sunken eyes he looks ten years older than he is (Louis pins him at around 30, despite the fact that he looks like a father to especially difficult teenagers) and his voice is that of a corporate drone, thin and reedy and entirely too uncomfortable to be sitting across from two angry boys united as a single front. The other executive is far more confident, far more demanding. Her hair falls black and stick-straight down her shoulders, and her eyes look to be all pupil, iris barely discernible. Her smile is white against wide lips and dark skin, but it’s sharp. She’s the one they’re worried about. She’s the one they need to fight.

Louis feels like a broken record, but he keeps pushing. “For the millionth – literally millionth – time, we aren’t going to just up and stop speaking to each other. Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? Don’t you think that’s worse than letting some fans make harmless assumptions?”

“Which are correct, by the way,” adds Harry. “They’re assuming the truth.” The only hint that he’s anything less than comfortable is the way his fists are clenched at his sides. Open book, that boy, and Louis’ lucky to have him, but he’s wily, too, knows how and when to reign it in. Louis isn’t so good at the reigning it in part.

“It’s only when you’re on camera,” says the scary executive, Monica or Melissa or Mariah or something like that, and her tone is firm and a little condescending. Louis bristles. Even her accent, American and grating, feels patronizing. “We really aren’t asking for much. The fans want straight boys. I don’t think you understand the fact that some of these girls think they want to marry you. They can’t marry you if you don’t swing their way, and they’ll stop buying tickets if they feel strongly enough about it, not to mention their parents. Conservative parents are the reason we’re here trying to clean up your image! You boys go out and drink and smoke and have a good time, fine, we understand that you’re young, but you aren’t normal boys and you don’t lead normal lives. This is an opportunity, a beautiful one, and you could wreck it. Some distance while people are watching could help appease the fans and their parents, too, and sales could go back up again.”

Harry’s scoffing before she finishes the sentence, and his eyes flash with something fierce. “Sales are through the roof,” he says evenly.

“They should be higher,” interjects the other executive. His name may or may not be Jerry. Louis can’t really be arsed to care. 

He’s about to leave in a huff, standing and moving to drag Harry with him, but Monica-Melissa-Mariah stops him in his tracks with, “so you’re just going to storm out, then? You’re not children. It’s selfish to act the way you’ve been acting. We know that you’re young, but you’re responsible for your actions. Sales aren’t as high as they should be – that’s a fact, and if you two are okay with not reaching your potential, that’s fine, but your band has five members.”

He sits down begrudgingly, mind whirling.

“They’re on our side,” says Harry, but some of the anger has leached out of his pores. It isn’t as if they haven’t thought about this; they even talked it through with the other lads, but guilt is heavy and hard to treat logically. “They don’t care about being billionaires. We just want to make music.”

“And the rest of us?” she continues, viciously, “The crew, the band, the security, the people behind the scenes – you’d cut their paychecks, too? That’s fair?”

“It isn’t your band,” shoots Louis, “is it?”

She smiles suddenly, shoulders relaxing, posture easy, and the room is all teeth. “Of course not. But think, is it really only yours?”

There are so many double meanings there, and not for the first time Louis thinks he despises lawyers. She isn’t a lawyer, but she’s close enough to one, the way she twists words. Harry is wringing his hands. Louis wants to reach out and still the movement, but there’s something ugly churning in his gut and it’s bitter like regret. It’s been them against everyone else, at least it felt that way, and here they are, declaring that they’re more important, declaring that the world revolves around them. They have been selfish, and Louis feels sick with it. 

He stands again, this time on shaky feet. “I’m leaving,” he says, and Harry’s head snaps up. He tries to shoot him a look like _you too, you knob, I wouldn’t leave you here alone_ , but it probably looks more like he’s about to fall over.

“Meeting adjourned, then,” says the lady executive whose name remains a mystery. She’s still smiling. He wants to claw it off of her face, but he’s supposed to be a professional, so he grabs Harry’s hand hard instead and they march out through the big oak doors together, so much less steady than they were when they came in.

Harry’s breathing is erratic and just shy of loud. “We’re okay, right?” he asks, and he sounds so small. Something in Louis’ chest feels like it’s been knocked out of place. 

“Why wouldn’t we be?” He doesn’t look up. His voice sounds distant even to his own ears, but it’s polite and dismissive and meant to make Harry feel very small.

Apparently it works, because Harry doesn’t argue the point, though he’s chewing on his bottom lip with a vengeance like he knows something is terribly wrong. It isn’t even that anything is wrong, thinks Louis, not all of a sudden, but that everything about the situation is going to make things more difficult for them. These aren’t easy decisions they’ve been making, but they treated them as such, and it’s no surprise that they’re paying the consequences now. The only surprise is that they made it this far without too much guilt. It’s like they have catching up to do. The sick twist in Louis’ stomach punctuates the point, and when he gets to the car he hops in without a word.

The ride back to the hotel starts out quiet and awkward. Harry is fiddling on his phone (probably texting one of his cool London hipster friends, as usual) and Louis is fiddling with the material of his pants. They’re sitting farther away from each other than they should be.

It’s Harry who breaks the silence, with an unusually somber, “they don’t own us.”

“No,” agrees Louis, “that they don’t. Though I’m sure they wish they did. We’re nice to look at, or at least that’s what all the fans say, bless their hearts.”

“I’m being serious, here,” says Harry, trying for stern, but he’s half-smiling helplessly like he can’t stop from being charmed. 

Louis smirks. “Me too. If they knew what your arse-“

“All right, all right,” cuts in Harry, very obviously holding back laughter at this point, “that won’t be necessary. I’d rather not hear what you wish the management executives knew about my arse, thanks.” He sobers a little, then. “I mean it. They can’t control us like this, and I hate that we’re letting them. I hate that it gets to us. They think they know everything, but how do we know that fans wouldn’t support us? We could help people, y’know? Give some kids something to look up to.” He sounds like a dream, and Louis wants to kiss him senseless and slap him around in equal measure for the kind of talk he’s spewing out.

Louis counters hard. “But what if they didn’t, then? What if the fans decided that instead of throwing a pride parade they’d start hating us completely? What if we ended our careers – not just our careers, everyone’s careers? Paul, Lou, Caroline, Ben, everyone? The lads?” Harry pales, but Louis presses on, feels mad with it. “Forgive me if I can’t imagine every single fan decking out in rainbows and buying our albums en masse once they find out. It’s an ugly, bitter world. Sometimes it’s our oyster, but you can’t pretend fame isn’t fickle as all hell. We can’t keep letting people down like this. If it all crashes and burns, what then? What do we do?” He’s breathing a little more heavily by the end of it, and he’s a little more fidgety. Never has been excellent at sitting still, Louis. He swallows down a breath and it doesn’t feel like enough.

The thing is, they’ve talked about it before, but never so bluntly. Management had danced around it a couple of times, sure, but Harry and Louis themselves hadn’t even figured out their relationship until over a year after they’d been put together as a band, and even then it’d been messy. This thing they have isn’t new, per se, but it feels like it on occasion. They fumble more than they ought to. Their default state is giggly and mischievous and sometimes even loved up. That doesn’t mean they don’t both feel the weight of secrecy hanging over their heads like storm clouds. Ominous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Harry answers with a small, “I don’t know,” and it’s hard to remember sometimes but Harry’s over two years younger than Louis and he carries so much on his shoulders. The front man, the poster child, the womanizer – the things they say about him, the things they expect him to be…it makes Louis’ heart hurt, because it isn’t fair. None of it’s fair, especially not their situation right now, and maybe both of them would do better with some space than anything else. 

They arrive at the hotel before Louis can say anything, and his hand at the small of Harry’s back as they walk inside is meant to be an apology; Louis holds his breath, waiting for a reaction.

The way Harry shrugs it off once they’re alone in the elevator is answer enough for now.

…

“You’ll burn a hole in the rug.” Louis looks up sharply. “That’s what me mam always told me, at least,” continues Niall, shrugging from where he’s perched at the foot of the hotel bed.

Louis stops pacing and runs a hand through his hair instead. It’s getting long – Lou keeps bothering him about cutting it but he likes the freedom, likes knowing he’s got control over this one thing at least. Also, it’s easier to deal with when he doesn’t have to style it. It’s still cold enough for beanies in the Southern Hemisphere, so until they get to the European leg he feels no real urge to alter it at all.

Niall’s eyes on him are earnest and confused. “What’s wrong, mate?”

Louis sighs. Niall’s easy to talk to, almost deceptively so, but he isn’t sure he wants to relive the meeting or its aftermath right now. “Harry and I are in trouble with management again,” he says, keeping it simple, and Niall’s nose scrunches up in sympathy. He doesn’t totally understand (lucky, that lad is, that he’s okay with keeping to himself. Niall’s not much of an advertiser when it comes to his love life, what little of it there is – not for lack of attention, nor lack of trying, but because he likes his privacy. Also, he dates girls, so what little does get out rarely ever results in backlash. Niall’s careful like that. He’s lucky and he knows it) but he tries to understand, he does, and the attempt is heartwarming.

“Why do we keep them around, again?”

In spite of himself, Louis smirks. “Because we like having jobs, Niall.”

“Ah, right, right.”

They share a half-grin but it doesn’t reach their eyes. After a few beats of silence, Louis has started pacing again without realizing, and Niall asks, “d’you wanna go get pissed, then? Just- absolutely smashed? Forget about the day for a bit?”

He thinks about Harry, two rooms down. He’s probably going out of his mind – he stresses most behind closed doors, and on any other day Louis would be right there with him, holding him tight and whispering reassurances into his ear, taking his phone out of his shaking hands, leading them both to bed and calling it an early night. But this isn’t any other day. Louis is hurting too, damn it, and maybe it’s horrendously selfish but sometimes he needs to put himself first.

“Yeah,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it, and he tries valiantly to put Harry out of his mind. Zayn should be there – they’re sharing a room this leg, and Liam’s got the single; though, to be fair, when Liam has the single Zayn usually ends up spending the night in there, too. It’s supposed to be a secret from everyone, even the lads, but Zayn and Liam really do get loud when they go at it, so to speak, and Liam’s one of the worst at guarding secrets, regardless. It must endear him to Zayn. Hell if Louis knows.

Niall whoops and grabs Louis’ hand, about to lead him out the door before he thinks better of it. “Mate,” he says, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to do something with your hair.”

Louis laughs, long and loud and only a little brittle, and heads into the bathroom.

…

The club is thrumming with bass and thick with smoke, and when he and Niall walk in they get to feel anonymous for about sixteen seconds. Then, the whispers start, and they’re ushered back to a VIP section. “Sick, man!” says Niall, heading straight for the bar, and Louis shakes his head fondly, stretching his arms out behind his back. He rolls his neck a few times and checks out the crowd.

A few girls wink. He shoots them a charming grin (okay, it’s a little flirty, so sue him) because he’s feeling vindictive, and turns to follow Niall to the bar. He’s supposed to be straight, and they don’t know any better, and right now it’s really easy to pretend and chalk it up to orders from management. He can hear the girls tittering behind him with their tight dresses and dark eyeliner, but only one seems to have the courage to come up to him.

“Buy me a drink?” she asks, teeth catching her lower lip on a grin. She’s stunning; he can definitely admit that much, with her wide eyes and dark curls. 

He watches her carefully, warring with himself. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t, because he has a boyfriend and said boyfriend is probably freaking out right now. He shouldn’t, but if he doesn’t stop everything right now, he totally will.

He buys her the drink.

Her smile is warm and her eyes are dark where they watch him, but she seems happy, chatty, eager to catch his fancy. He’s charmed, and leans in to hear her better. She doesn’t seem to mind that he’s entered her space; quite the opposite, actually – she lights up like a beacon, and the club itself fades to background noise. “Haven’t seen you round here before,” she says.

“Been a while, really,” he replies, posture lax and open. This is easy. He can do this, take the night off from responsibility, be cool and flirtatious with this girl and see where it leads. He’ll stop before it gets dangerous. Even as he makes it, he knows it’s likely an empty promise. 

Her eyelashes are even longer up close. “Shame, that.”

“Right shame,” he agrees. He’s lost sight of Niall but that doesn’t matter too much, all things considered. She touches a hand to his shoulder, and the side of her mouth quirks up.

A camera flashes somewhere, and Louis is jarred very suddenly out of the moment. It shouldn’t be a big deal, assuming he can find the culprit, but if he doesn’t do it quickly enough he could be in major trouble. Damage control is a talent acquired in this industry, and he likes to think he’s pretty good under pressure. His eyes scan the crowd carefully, trying to pick out the camera so he can defuse the situation, when he catches a slip of a girl with ash-blonde hair darting out the back, digital camera wrapped daintily around her wrist. He tries to get a better look, but this girl is in the way, and no matter how lovely she is, she isn’t as important as she was a few seconds ago. There are pictures out there somewhere, now, of the two of them. He needs to get to Harry and explain things before Harry sees them, and he absolutely does not need to take this girl home. When he looks at her, her eyes are flirty and expectant, and any ounce of attraction he felt toward her is slipping fast

He takes a breath, opens his mouth, and says (shouts, really, spotting Niall closer than he’d expected but still far enough away that he feels unanchored), “Niall, we need to leave, now, please,” sending the girl an apologetic smile that verges on simpering. It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and when Niall catches onto what’s going on he looks equally disapproving and amused.

“Yeah, all right, let’s go,” he says, looking mournfully at his drink. 

The music is still thudding steadily in the background. The girl gives him a half smile half sneer and spins cleanly on the barstool, heading back to where her friends are gathered. Soon the whole gaggle of girls is glaring at him (and okay, yes, he deserves it). “Come on, Tommo.”

As they’re walking out, Louis groans and throws a hand across his forehead. Niall, disgruntled, tugs him along, trying not to slam into anyone on the way out. “I almost just cheated, Niall. I was going to. I was almost a cheater. Harry’s going to murder me and I’m going to let him. Just kill me and throw my body in an alley right now, won’t you? I deserve it.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” says Niall good-naturedly. This isn’t a departure from the norm; he says everything good-naturedly. “You didn’t go through with it; you stopped yourself, and she was _fit_. Harry should buy you flowers or whatever you two do. You’re a proper Romeo, you are.”

“There’s a picture,” says Louis. His tongue feels heavy, mouth dry. “A girl, she took a picture and ran.”

Niall’s significantly less cheery after that. “Shite. Yeah, mate,” he says, “you’re gettin’ chewed out.”

“Don’t I know it,” replies Louis, and when they get back to the hotel it’s nearing two in the morning. He wonders how that happened. He wonders what he’s meant to do now, if he should try to stem the bleeding before it gets to be too much or if he should wait it out altogether, let Harry make the first move and hide away until then like a coward.

No. No, he can’t do that. He owes Harry so much more than that. He isn’t even sure exactly where they are right now, but Louis’ a big boy. He can face the music. He isn’t going to be pathetic about this.

If it takes him longer than usual to get his bearings and hit the button for Harry’s floor in the elevator, Niall doesn’t say anything. And if he bites his lip so hard he nearly tastes blood while waiting in the silence, Niall just plants a hand on his shoulder, solid, steady, grounding. “Good luck, Tommo,” he says as the doors open.

He’s already missed a call from “Pauline (management).”

Louis throws him an impish grin. “Thanks, mate,” he replies, easy as breathing, and he shoves down the nerves like he’s been doing for years. 

Another call comes in. The screen reads, “Pauline (management).” 

Louis starts to walk down the hallway, and he’s halfway to Harry’s room when he receives a text message. He decides to ignore it, but then he starts wondering who in the world would bother texting him at this time. He’s never been a patient one, Louis, and his curiosity gets the best of him.

It’s a moment he’ll come to regret dearly, standing in the hotel hallway holding his phone like it’s a live grenade. 

The text is from “Pauline (management),” and reads as follows: “Emergency meeting, board room downstairs, now. Just you. Show up in 10 or hell to pay.” 

Hell to pay seems a little bit melodramatic, he thinks, but that sick feeling in his stomach from earlier is rearing up again like it’d never tempered down at all, and he throws Harry’s door one last despairing look before turning around and walking too quickly to meet his fate.

…

The doors look bigger than they did earlier. Maybe it’s because of the fact that no one should be awake at such an ungodly hour, but under the blaring fluorescent lights it feels just like daytime, and Louis isn’t tired anymore.

His hand is shaking as he reaches for the doorknob but he opens it anyway, figures it’s all or nothing at this point and he can’t afford the latter.

The table is set up exactly the way it was earlier, down to the bowl of mints on the left side. Once Louis is seated, Pauline shoots him a tight, upset smile – her eyes are saying _one false move and you’re ours_ , but her steepled fingers are saying _it’s too late to run; we have you right where we want you_. Pauline is normally a fairly nice lady outside of the blatant disregard for the boys’ autonomy, but there’s something harsher in the lines of her face today. Her lips are painted a bright pink but it doesn’t feel like a very warm color. She mashes them together before ramming her shoulders back as if she’s steeling herself to speak, and Louis slinks back a little in his chair, trying desperately to stop his hands shaking. There must be some remnants of caffeine in his system, or the thermostat is turned too low; he isn’t afraid, can’t afford to be. When faced with management, he’s found that he doesn’t have a choice. They’re like dogs, in that sense – can smell the fear where it sits heavy in his gut.

“Your behavior tonight was very unprofessional, Louis. My colleagues and I decided that we should meet now and discuss our options before everything gets too out of hand.” The other two executives (people he’s never seen before, though that isn’t unusual) nod curtly. Louis doubts they see him as a person as opposed to a string of numbers, but he has to play nice for at least a little bit while they’re calling the shots and he’s sitting by himself. These meetings are always easier when the five of them are together. They’re always harder to stomach alone.

He tastes metal on his tongue when he bites back his pride. “There was a girl with a camera, blonde, maybe a little shorter than me. She ran out the back, but if she’s posted the picture already I’m sure you can find her, have her explain the situation.” This isn’t the first time they’ve had to do this. This also isn’t the first time it’s been Louis. He’s learned not to argue quite so much, and it’s a sobering thought, that so much of his fighting spirit has been lost to rooms like this one.

Pauline looks to her colleagues and raises an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed. “I’m not sure you understand the gravity of your behavior these last months.” Her tone is condescending, and Louis bites his tongue. “Time and time again we’ve asked you to be responsible and remember that everything you do is in the public eye, and this is how you act.”

“Listen, I’m sorry-“ he tries, starting to get worked up, but he’s cut off.

“Sorry isn’t going to fix this, is it?” Pauline slides a sheet of paper across the table, and then another. It’s a draft of a magazine article, and the headline reads, in big, ugly letters, “ONE DIRECTION’S FALL FROM GRACE?” He skims over the article and only catches snatches of text – “wild nights with mystery girls” and “sales lower than expected” and “friendships deteriorating” and “not taking their work seriously” and “peaked too soon?” – but it’s enough to make him feel genuinely sick. This is no teenybopper magazine with foldout posters and glittery polls; this is a widely read, very adult publication, and while it doesn’t have the potential to ruin them, it could definitely hurt them. When he notices the pictures, he feels even worse – they’re almost all of him or Harry, grainy photos taken in seedy bars from sketchy vantage points, just like the one tonight. Apparently all of this straight posturing hadn’t been helping them after all.

He swallows hard and pushes the article back across the table. “None of it’s true,” he says, voice steady but strained, “Obviously, we aren’t putting girls in front of our work. I mean, come on, right?” His attempt at a laugh comes out strained, too, but they don’t look like they understand and he needs them to understand. “For crying out loud, we aren’t going to go off and snog whatever pretty bird that comes our way – Harry and I are in a relationship. Obviously. I thought we made that fairly obvious, did we not?”

Pauline mashes her lips together again. Her eyebrows stare Louis down disapprovingly. “That, we think, is where the problem is stemming from, actually.” 

“We’re not breaking up,” he says, just in case that’s what she’s about to suggest.

Her lips quirk down a little before she answers. “Fine,” she says, cool as anything, “then we’re dropping you from our management. Wave your record deal goodbye, and have fun breaking the news to the lads.” She manages to say all of this in a clipped, professional voice. If you ignored the content of her speech, she’d sound almost friendly, but Louis has officially decided that Pauline is demon spawn and so is everyone else from their management. Anger flushes up his spine. Always has been easy to rile up, Louis.

“We’ll find someone else,” he counters. “Biggest boy band in the world, selling out stadiums – I think this would hurt you more than us. Maybe it’s time we left. Could be good for us, to get a fresh start, or summat like that.”

“And if word were to get out about your belligerence, blatant disregard for authority, and selfishness? What then? Tell me, who would be willing to work with you?”

Louis’ jaw clenches as he runs through his options in his head. “So I don’t have any kind of choice in the matter, then?” He hates how small he sounds, but mostly he hates that he can’t see an escape route. 

“Louis,” says Pauline, and she sounds heartbreakingly gentle, “we are giving you a choice. It would be good for your images if you and Harry made statements that you’re undeniably single. Give the fans some room to breathe, because they’re confused and the media is eating it all up. If we weren’t giving you a choice at all, you’d have been jobless weeks ago. We don’t want to let you go, but we have to do what’s best for business.”

“We are not a company!” he retaliates, and hits his small fist against the heavy wooden table. It throbs in response, but Louis’ running on enough adrenaline and shock to not feel a single thing. “We are people, and we have feelings, and our job is to make music, not money.”

He’s breathing heavily by the end of it, unbearably frustrated. He’s tired and hungry and probably easy to manipulate by this point; he essentially just threw a temper tantrum, and is on the receiving end of three highly unimpressed stares. He doesn’t want to be here. All he wants is to make up with Harry and go to bed, and maybe call his mum in the morning and have a good cry. He feels so much younger than his years.

“Celebrities aren’t people,” says Pauline, and Louis’ about to jump up but she soldiers on, “they’re carefully constructed images, and I think we’ve wasted enough time discussing yours. If you aren’t newly single by morning, we drop you, and that’s that.” She stands and starts to collect her various papers, and her colleagues (useless, silent sods that they are) begin to do the same. “You’ll be hearing from me, Louis. You’re dismissed.”

He’s frozen in his seat. “That’s it? That’s really all you’re going to say to me?”

Pauline frowns and tilts her ponytailed head, scrutinizing him. “Get some rest,” she says after a tense moment, “you look like you’re about to keel over.” She turns her back to him to retrieve her purse, and when she doesn’t hear him leaving, repeats, “Dismissed,” with a heavy finality.

When he walks out of the room, his feet don’t feel like his own, and the doors slam so loudly behind him that he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Bloody hell,” he whispers, once he’s sure he’s alone. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

…

He wakes up with a mouthful of Niall’s hair and rolls over heavily with a grimace. “Time to get up, Blondie,” he says, shoving at Niall’s shoulder, “I’m in a crisis and it’s at least half your fault for taking me out last night.”

Net to him, Niall stretches and groans, and Louis can hear the patter of rain hitting the hotel roof. He hadn’t slept well, too full of nervous energy and a sick kind of dread, but he had managed to sleep through the restlessness for a few hours. “Too early for this,” mumbles Niall, but he kicks his legs over the side of the bed all the same. “What’s going on?”

“They’re making me break up with Harry,” he answers, and his voice is small and quiet like he’s had the breath kicked right out of him. 

Niall’s head snaps out. “They’re what?” Now he sounds fully awake. It’s the kind of news that does that to people.

“Threatened to drop us from the label entirely if I don’t, said they’d ruin our reputation as a band. The paps, they’ve got loads of pictures of me and Harry with random girls, and- we were trying, you know? We were trying to fix it, or hide it, but apparently the fans are confused and sales aren’t where they should be and it’s all an enormous mess, I guess, and there’s an article-“ his chest is nearly heaving with how overwhelmed he feels, and Niall crowds in closer.

“Whoa, mate, slow down. What exactly did they say?”

So Louis takes him through it at a more reasonable pace, starting with his various outings and the various birds he was spotted with and ending at 3:30 AM that morning and how he felt completely and utterly trapped. “It’s nearly eight now – I know it’s early, sorry mate – and she said she’d call.”

“Shouldn’t we talk about this as a band? Before you just break up with Harry, or fake break up, or whatever you’re gonna do?”

Louis’ shaking his head before Niall’s even finished. “There’s no time. I need to find Harry.”

“Hey, wait-“ tries Niall, but Louis’ already gone.

…

Harry opens the door in his boxers, and Louis’ brain temporarily short circuits. His hair is sticking in every direction and his face is half-slack from sleep and he’s still the most beautiful thing Louis’ ever seen. 

Just as he’s about to start speaking – he’d practiced different ways to cradle the news in his mouth so it wouldn’t sting so much – his phone starts to vibrate.

For a precious few seconds, the two boys just stare at each other.

“You, uh. You gonna answer that?” Harry’s eyes are guileless and very green.

Louis swallows hard and throws any and all carefully constructed plans out the window. “Harry,” he says instead, and then again, “Harry. We need to talk.”

…

After four years of friendship (and a little bit more than friendship), it hasn’t gotten any easier to see Harry cry.

…

The day passes in ticks and spurts. Louis talks with management for too long and watches, dejectedly, as Harry makes his way into the room with the big oak doors to face them down himself. Niall keeps a hand on Louis’ shoulder pretty steadily the entire day and Louis is grateful for it, feels at least a little bit grounded.

Liam looks like he wants to ask, but he keeps his mouth shut. Another small blessing, though Louis feels like he’s bursting with the need to scream.

It’s all just supremely unfair.

They have their first concert at this venue tomorrow, and the Swiss mountains are beautiful but hard to see through the rain. The night before a concert the five of them always order some random kind of takeout and pile into someone’s room, and for the first time in months Louis is actually dreading it.

“Do we have to?” he asks, and he’s well aware that he sounds like a child but he’s also never been shy to embrace that side of himself. “It’s going to be awkward and awful. Maybe you should just go without me, tell the boys I’ve got a stomach bug or summat.”

Niall is horrifyingly unrelenting. “Are you really trying to make things worse for yourself? C’mon, things are awkward enough already. Let’s go.”

So they make the trek to Liam’s room.

It’s messy in the same way it always is, things tossed about haphazardly – not as though they’re out of place, but more like Liam never really learned to organize things in the first place. There are clothes piled on the dresser, and his suitcase is open in the corner of the room, obviously rifled through several times over the past few days. Zayn’s shirt is hanging on the back of the desk chair. Liam himself is sprawled out across the bed, and he shoots them a loose, easy smile when they walk in.

Zayn isn’t here yet, which is par for the course (they’d bought him a watch for his birthday at the party he’d been late to, and he’d just merrily flipped them off), and Harry is probably with him. Louis very actively does not think about it.

“Hello Liam, what weird Swiss food have you ordered for us?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “I called an Italian place down the road.”

“Boring,” intones Louis, “but acceptable.”

“Better than that cheap seafood you got us in Japan,” Niall chimes in, “I was the only one who could handle that without hurling.”

“That’s because you’ve got an iron stomach,” says Zayn, and all of their heads snap up at the same time. Zayn’s standing alone in the doorway, and when they look at him he raises his eyebrows and saunters in. “S’true. Harry couldn’t make it, by the way.” He says it casually, but his eyes are a little darker than usual with worry. None of them ask why. None of them have to.

The mood of the room sobers markedly. Louis wonders how much they know about the situation, how much Harry has told them, or Niall. 

Louis hates the quiet, always has, so he decides to try to lighten things up; the alternative is actually facing the fact that it’s all his fault, and it’s not one he’s really willing to entertain. With a piercing cry, he tackles Liam to the floor, and they end up rolling over each other, elbows flying every which way. He can hear Niall and Zayn cheering in the background (both for Liam, the traitors), and, unsurprisingly, he ends up pinned on his back, both wrists locked in Liam’s grip. The cheers escalate. Louis makes a mental note to unfollow the both of them on Twitter. Liam gets a pass because Louis never expected to win this particular fight (Liam can bench press Louis and then some, probably). Then Zayn jumps on Liam’s back, and it devolves into a complete free for all.

The interruption comes in the form of a knock on the door. “Must be the food,” chirps Louis from under Zayn’s left leg, “I’ll get it.” He untangles himself, still laughing, and opens the door.

His laughter dies in his throat.

“Hi.”

Harry scuffs his socked foot into the carpet. “Uh, hi. Can I come in?”

Louis blinks, hard. “Christ’s sake, Curly, you don’t need permission.” It’s far too familiar and fond for an ex-boyfriend (and seriously, what the hell), but it makes Harry’s eyes go all hurt and squinty so it doesn’t really matter, anyway. Harry pushes past him into the room, and the other three boys are quiet where they’re piled atop one another on the floor. Harry barely spares them a glance, just sits on the edge of the bed and asks, “What are we eating?”

“Italian,” says Liam, and the room collectively exhales.

It doesn’t get any less awkward, but it’s manageable, even if Louis keeps forgetting that Harry isn’t his anymore. The eye contact is hard to bear, especially since it’s always cut off so abruptly. Louis is tight and on edge and snippy, and Harry is sullen and quiet and blue, and the other three do their best to make up for it with random conversation (mostly about food, because it seems like a safe topic), and it’s all mostly almost okay.

…

The concert is a nightmare.

Harry’s voice is perfectly on pitch, unsurprisingly, but his liveliness is completely gone. His eyes look dead. His smiles are rare and empty, and when Zayn upends an entire water bottle on his head, he barely looks up. It doesn’t stop the girls from screaming when he waves at them, but there will be repercussions once video gets out.

Louis is as charismatic as always, years of drama training coming back to support him full force, but his solos are all shaky at best, and after one particularly awful harmony Liam pulls him aside, out of the blinding spotlights and behind part of the set.

“Mate, you okay?” His eyes are wide and earnest and concerned and Louis feels a sudden vicious streak, wants to smack the look right off of Liam’s face.

“No,” he answers, “I’m quite obviously not okay, but this is me getting through it. I’m trying my best here, but it’s not easy when Curly McCurly over there is a walking ball of angst and it’s entirely my fault.”

Liam swallows and nods, patting Louis on the back once, twice, three times. “Just a few songs left,” he says, and Louis takes it for the peace offering it is.

The songs go terribly, but they go all the same, and after what feels like the longest concert of his life, Louis is bowing low and being swept off the stage, grateful to be done.

…

“We need to talk,” says Harry, and it’s nothing like Louis’ heartbroken plea a week before. Harry is firm and angry and his eyes are like thunderstorms.

Louis looks him in the eyes. “About what?” he asks, “Haven’t we been through this? You’re hurt, I’m hurt, we’re doing our best because it’s all we can, et cetera, et cetera. The situation sucks but this is our life, now.”

Harry frowns. He looks more like a disgruntled puppy than a betrayed man, but the pain in his eyes is so evident that it feels like a physical blow. “This isn’t any better than the alternative. We’re going to lose money anyway, because I can’t keep it together. Haven’t you seen me?” He gestures at his body. “I’m a complete mess. The concerts here have been miserable because I can’t handle the stress. I don’t want this to be our life.”

“It’s not like I asked for any of this!” He always has been easy to rile up, Louis. “They didn’t give me a choice.”

Harry shakes his head very slowly. “No,” he says, “You made your choice. I get it.”

“Harry-“ he says, but Harry’s already turned around. Louis stands still, rooted to the spot.

“You can go,” says Harry, and Louis thinks he’s never heard him sounds so cold.

…

“This,” says Liam, rather grandly – or, well, he tries to be grand and mostly fails since grandness is usually more Louis’ domain – “is an intervention.”

Louis levels him (and the room as a whole) an unimpressed glare and starts to walk out.

“Hey!” shouts Liam, “Wait, we practiced for this! I wrote a speech!”

“Louis,” says Harry. Louis turns around.

He looks at Liam, then Niall, then Zayn. “You three, out.”

“But-“

“Out.”

After effectively evicting them from the room, he faces Harry. “Okay,” he says, “let’s talk, then.”

…

It starts awkward, but once Louis apologizes properly, they gain plenty of momentum. After the first few minutes, they don’t really get much talking done after all, and Louis walks out of the room towing Harry by the hand and feeling more determined than he has in ages.

“We can do this, yeah?” he asks, and Harry’s eyes are bright. His clothes are a little rumpled, so Louis reaches out and fixes his shirt. They need to look at least half presentable for this.

“Yeah,” he responds, “yeah. Let’s go.”

…

Pauline is flanked by Monica-Melissa-Mariah and possibly-Jerry, and her entire demeanor is like that of a particularly sharp knife. “We had an agreement,” she says, “and I hope you are aware that your actions will have consequences. Major consequences.”

“We’ve thought it over,” says Harry, and his confidence is infectious, “and we’d rather be homeless than continue to work under you.”

“What he said,” agrees Louis, and he hasn’t smirked so hard since the time he switched the whipped cream in the bus fridge for shaving cream and Liam almost threw up his lunch.

Harry links their hands beneath the table, and Louis holds on tight. Whatever the storm, they’ll weather it together. They’ve found they’re really no good at doing it on their own.


End file.
